


The one where Jack Morrison has a Massive Crush and Cannot Deal.

by EdgelordFucker



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, F/M, Obsessive thoughts, Spanking, tags to be updated, this is so shamefully self-indulgent lol, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9432719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgelordFucker/pseuds/EdgelordFucker
Summary: Jack pines.((Really, this is just a self-indulgent PWP. Expect more smut and pining in future chapters.))





	1. Jack Drinks and Creeps On The Reader.

The sun is setting at Watchpoint: Gibraltar. The light is a dimming mix of deep oranges and reds, casting dark shadows where it doesn’t quite reach, seeming darker still for how brightly the sun shone during the day, and how the light seems to linger. The ocean is calm, offers an unmarred reflection of the sky. All rich colors, endless horizons. Gibraltar sunsets are always gorgeous, always picture perfect, but this one is breathtaking, a sight that reminds you of how small you truly are in the vast scheme of things. So beautiful it’s humbling.

Jack’s not looking at it, of course.

He finishes his beer, puts the empty bottle back in the cardboard holder, pulls out another. The glass is sweating.

Of course he isn’t. That’s his biggest flaw, among countless others. He can never appreciate what’s in front of him.

His hands are a bit tacky from the bottle. He twists the top off (it’s not a twist top bottle; normal humans would need a bottle opener), takes a long pull off of it, lets it dangle in his fingers, as he braces his forearms on the waist high wall of one of the many landings dotting the Watchpoint, leans on it.

Jack covets.

You’re standing below him, on the cliffside. With McCree. He’s not sure what you’re talking about, but you’re laughing, smiling brightly, touching his arm occasionally, drifting in and out of his orbit. McCree is obviously enjoying himself. He’d always been a flirt, even as a skinny little shit with a big mouth and not much other than a six-shooter he could barely hold straight to back it up. But Jesse’d mellowed with age and grief, grew up into a quiet, deadly man who hid his pain with a flashy persona and too much liquor.

You made Jesse happy, though. Jack could tell. He could see the puppy-dog eagerness in the perk of his shoulders, tempered as it was by age, could see the giddiness in the crooked smirk he had thought was as lost as the Swiss base, could see the good humor, the desire to make you laugh had even carried over in Jesse’s interactions with the rest of the team. You were good for the old cowboy. Jack knew it. Jack saw it. Made him feel even more guilt around the bone deep jealousy he felt when he saw you with McCree. Or when he saw you with anyone, really.

Jack takes another drink.

It wasn’t just McCree you were good for. It wasn’t just McCree he was jealous of. You were good for everyone. You were bright, happy, kind. Always had a smile, a joke, a laugh, a listening ear for anyone who wanted them. Even for him. Which made how possessive he felt of you all the more shameful. It would’ve been easier if you ignored him, never told him, “good morning”, never smiled in passing, never held doors for him. But you did.  
Jack had never actually spoken a word to you, of course. He thought it might cool his affection for you. It didn’t.

He watches you gently nudge Jesse with your elbow in response to something the cowboy’d said, one hand going to readjust your sunhat on your head, the other occupied with the handle of your parasol and a fistful of the skirt of your dress. He had almost broken his never-speak-to-you rule today when he saw the damn thing. It would’ve been conservative, even prudish – all black, ankle length, full sleeved, high necked – if not for the fact that it was completely sheer. You were barely wearing anything underneath it, of course, – because he needed more bits of you to obsess over – just a simple bralette, and high-waisted shorts that took the “short” part to an unnecessary extreme. Your garters hung freely on your thighs, stockings tucked into your abandoned boots.

He had watched you slip them off, his his heart kicking into double time as you unclipped your thigh highs and skimmed them off of your legs. He watched you step onto the grass, your face tilting towards the sun as you took a moment to curl your toes into the blades. A smile steals over your face.

He stares, but even as the shame of intruding on such a quiet moment prickled hotly at his neck, a soft, warm feeling settled over him, a bittersweet mix of wistfulness and unbridled affection. You take a deep breath, hold it in your lungs for a moment, then slowly exhale. Your back turns to him as you make your way closer to the cliffside, and for he almost breaks his never-speak-to-you rule for the umpteenth time as you go to sit right on the edge. He hadn’t realized he had been smiling with you until it dropped off of his face, the muscles aching from disuse, as harsh words of warning sit on the tip of his tongue, but thankfully McCree calls out to you, grabbing your attention.

And here the three of you are now, the two of you enjoying each other, and the view, him hiding on a shadowed landing, six beers deep into his twelve pack, watching you instead of the sunset.


	2. Jack has a Wet Dream, much to his Continued Disappointment and General Annoyance.

Jack dreams, occasionally. Most of the time he has nightmares. Visions of grabbing hands, screaming mouths, faces of people he loved shrieking condemnation, or begging for help. Nightmares where he relives his entire life, never once changing his decisions, trapped in a body that won’t obey him, won’t stop being selfish for once in his goddamn life, why is he so selfish –

Gabriel features prominently, a hoarse voice buried under piles of rubble that are endless, that Jack digs at endlessly, snapping off his fingernails, the bones of his hands cracking under the force he’s using to tear at the fallen concrete and steel, but he never stops, not even when his hands are torn and mangled and useless, useless, useless –

But he dreams.

He would prefer nothing, would prefer being able to close his eyes and have them suddenly open a few minutes before his alarm goes off. That’d be too easy, of course. His dreams revolve around you lately, because of course they do. Unless he’s fighting, or planning to fight, his thoughts tend to drift to you, despite his wishes and rigid control. It would be worse when he’s sleeping, when he has no control.

He dreams of you in the sheer dress, naked except for the garter belt, sans stockings, underneath it. You’re standing in the backyard of your shared home, a glass of lemonade in either hand. You’re smiling warmly at him as he stands, wiping sweat from his brow, and tossing down the garden trowel on top of the piles of weeds he’s plucked from the flower beds. He accepts the glass you’re offering to him, insists on clinking them together, much to your amusement, before taking a long drink.

It’s the perfect marriage of sweet and tart, sliding coolly down his throat in a wonderful contrast to the warm Summer day, and the heat his labor has built up. You’re watching him over the rim of your glass, eyes glittering in the shade of your sunhat. The sun glints off of the twin, twined silver bands on your ring finger as you tilt the glass to take a sip, and hum in pleasure at the taste.

“It’s really good, baby,” he compliments. He steps forward to wrap his free arm around your waist, hand coming to grip your hip.

“Why, thank you darling,” you reply, leaning into him, “I made it just the way you like it.”

“I love you,” he says, ducking his head under the brim of your hat to rest his forehead against yours, and stares adoringly into your eyes. Your hand comes up to tangle in the golden hair at the nape of his neck, as you meet his gaze with just as much warmth, and nuzzle your nose against his. He laughs, nuzzles you back, and you steal a kiss, before pulling back to lock eyes with him again.

“I love you, too. So, so much,” you say, and the feeling colors your tone. The two of you stay like that for awhile, face to face, eye to eye. It’s warm and comfortable, and he basks in the easy way you share space, breathing each other’s air.  
The scene shifts, and the timer goes off, and he kisses you on the mouth, then on the nose, before grabbing an oven mit, and pulling the cookies out of the oven. They’re Gabriel’s favorite, soft sugar cookies cut into Halloween shapes, somehow perfectly iced as he as he pulls them out of a hot oven.

Jack’s excited for him to come home, and he smiles fondly at the twin, twined silver bands on his left ring finger. He’s so proud of him, he’s doing as well in his new position, and Overwatch had never been better. There’s a picture of the three of you on the mantel, of Gabriel’s first day.

You had insisted on it having it taken, the three of you posed in front of Gabriel’s new desk, in his new office at the Swiss base.

Gabriel stood between the two of you, your arms wrapped around him, the three of you smiling beatifically. He looked stunning in his Strike-Commander uniform, the blue making his dark skin pop, and joy radiated from the three of you. It was absolutely Jack’s favorite picture.

He supposes he needs to check the brisket out on the smoker soon. He’s been babying it all day, and he’d hate for it to come out even a little bit dry. You watch him use a cookie spatula to transfer the cookies to the cooling rack from your perch on the counter, kicking your crossed ankles lightly against the cabinets. He turns to face you, raises an eyebrow at you in mock seriousness, points at you with his spatula.

“Excuse me, young lady.” He motions to your kicking with the spatula. “You stop that.”

“Or what,” you ask coquettishly, fluttering your eyelashes, “you gonna spank me, daddy?” The question sends a bolt of heat through him, makes his cock throb, and he sets the spatula on the baking sheet. He steps up to you, and you playfully try to resist him, keeping your legs locked together. It’s futile, of course, because he’s much, much stronger than you, and much, much bigger, (fuck does that really get him off) and he effortlessly forces your sweet, soft thighs apart, stepping between them. You gasp at the display of strength, and he slides his big hands up under your dress, cups your hips, and pulls your core onto the prominent outline of his hard cock.

He feels how hot you are through the fabric of his jeans, and there’s sure to be a wet spot. He ducks his head to your neck, presses closed mouth kisses up to your ear, and nibbles the lobe before growling out, “what happens to little girls who misbehave?” You shudder against him as you moan weakly, and he grins against the side of your face. He loves being able to make your cunt clench with nothing but his voice. He wants to slide a few fingers into you to feel it happen, but he wants to make you beg for it first.

“They get punished,” is your breathless reply. The scene shifts again, and the two of you are in Jack’s old room at the Swiss base. The dress is ruched up over your hips, but the hat’s gone, and he’s fucking you slow and deep. He’s sitting back on his haunches, your knees are spread wide over his thighs, and he’s using both of his hands on your waist to pull you onto his cock. He has the perfect view of your pretty pussy being stretched open. Your hands are bound above your head with black mist, and you’re trying desperately to meet the roll of his hips with your own, but he won’t let you.

He loves watching you squirm, loves controlling the pace, and your pleasure, and nothing gets him harder than listening to you beg, “Daddy, daddy, daddy, please, please, please, more, please, daddy, please–”. Your lovely breasts are pressed against the fabric of your dress, nipples hard, and there’s really no other option but to lean down and take one in his mouth. You moan as he sucks, and your voice breaks, pussy clenching around his cock as he bites gently. He groans at the sensation, laves his tongue over the place he bit, fucks you down on his cock a bit harder, rolls his hips a bit faster.

He hears a tongue click from his right, and reigns himself in. He glances towards the noise, and sees Gabriel in a chair right by the bed, thick thighs spread obscenely wide, stroking himself in time with the slow, unrelenting way Jack is thrusting – or, more accurately, Jack is fucking you in time with Gabriel fucking into his own fist.

“Of course you’re trying to jump the gun already, Jackie. Really, I’m disappointed,” he says, mockingly – Jack knows he’s just playing, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t rile him up, and he growls – “I thought you’d last longer, but here you are,” he slows down, teases just the head of his cock and Jack groans as he slows down with him, barely pushing the tip of himself into you, “under-performing, as per usual.”

One hand moves from playing with the studs in his his nipples, to tracing a finger down his shaft, over the ladder piercings, to cup his balls and squeeze gently. Jack drops his head to your chest as a third hand Gabriel conjured from his black mist teases him in tandem. He hears you whimper, feels a little gush of wetness on his cock. You were so responsive. All it took was watching Gabriel touch himself to make you even slicker.

He feels another mist construct tease his hole, already slick with lube and come from earlier, and as the head pops in – it’s bigger than Gabriel’s dick, the fucker – the scene changes again. He’s got you up against a wall, with your legs hooked over his shoulders. His mouth is buried in your pussy, you’re so wet that your slick has covered his face and is dripping down his chin, and you taste so fucking good that he just can’t get enough, no matter how much he licks at you. He looks up your body, smugly taking in your flushed, sweaty skin, your glazed eyes, your open mouth. The fabric of your dress clings to your breasts, wet from where he’d thoroughly teased your nipples.

He vaguely wants to strip you out of it, but you make such a pretty picture, naked underneath something so conservatively cut, the sheer fabric showing your skin clearly, the skirt of it bunched around your waist. He’s dressed in his Soldier: 76 uniform, and only bothered to take the gloves off to better feel your hot, silky cunt clench around his thick fingers. His dick is trapped in his fatigues, and it feels like it’s about to rip a hole in the fabric, but he’s too busy with his mouth on your cunt to bother adjusting himself.

You’re so, so vocal. Jack loves it, he hangs off of every moan, every scream, feels so gratified when you can only choke out, “more”, or “please”, or “daddy”, or “Jack”. He’s certainly not quiet either, much to your obvious enjoyment. Every time you pull his hair, or squeeze your thighs around his head, he can’t help but growl or groan. His cocks is weeping, pre-come soaking through his pants, and he’s pretty damn sure that he can come like this, untouched, kneeling between your legs, with the wonderful taste of you in his mouth.

He’s made you come at least five times now, with nothing but his mouth and his fingers, and you’re so thoroughly, gorgeously, gloriously wrecked. You’re getting close again, he can tell by the way you’re rutting against him, your moans pitching up, getting louder. He pulls back right before you come, and you sob at the loss, try to pull him back, but he spanks you in warning.

“Whose pussy is this?” He growls the question against the skin of your inner thigh, and you whimper, but don’t reply, too fucked out to form a response. He spanks you again, and asks with a little more steel in his voice, “Whose pussy is this? Who do you belong to?”

“Y-you, daddy,” you choke out, “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.” Fuck, he lives for this. He loves you, he loves you so much it burns him. He tries so hard to let you know how much he cherishes you, but he’s not sure you know to what extent. He’d do anything for you, anything you asked of him would be done. For so long he had nothing to live for, was nothing other than an old ghost with a gun and a thirst for vengeance. Now he lives for you. Your ready submission warms his bones and sends fire racing through his spine to settle heavy in his gut.

“You’re my good girl, sweetheart, you’re so good to me.” Overwhelmed with emotion, he peppers quick, wet kisses over your thighs. “You wanna come for daddy, sweetheart? Wanna come all over my face?” Your back arches off of the wall wildly, and you sob.

“Please, daddy, please,” you beg desperately. Your broken tone makes him growl, and he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks as he stuffs you full of three thick fingers. And you scream as you come, and he can feel his cock twitching as he comes in his pants, and –

he jolts awake.

His cock is hard and leaking, his boxer briefs soaked where the head had been resting, and despite his better judgement he grabs himself and starts stroking. He comes hard after two passes, biting his fist to muffle the loud groan of your name, back arching violently, as he desperately chases the phantom taste of your pussy in his mouth.


End file.
